Shattered Reflections
by Ciara in cotton socks
Summary: When a fragile George Weasley stumbles upon the Mirror of Erised, there is only one face it can show him.  The one that haunts him every time he catches sight of his reflection and sees his twin brother looking back at him.


**Written for RoseWeasley123's 'I show not your face...' challenge, in which your character of choice stumbles upon the Mirror of Erised. The moment I found the challenge, I knew my obsession with all things Fred-and-George wouldn't let me ignore it. **

**Enjoy!**

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

He finds it by chance. He's heard a rumour that it is hidden in the Department of Mysteries (from Lee Jordan, who seems to know an awful lot for a man who spends most of his time recording radio shows), but he doesn't think anyone will be very pleased with him just turning up and demanding to see it. He _wants_ to, more than anything, but he knows why they don't want him to see it. He knows they're all worried, Mum and Ginny and the others, and he knows they have a point (he _is _spending most of his time in the back room of the joke skop, pickling his liver in Firewhiskey), but he needs to see it.

Ron is working with Harry in the Auror Office, both of them having been brought in by the new Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, in the wake of all that saving-the-wizarding-world excitement. George wishes he could be proud of him, but he's not ready to feel anything yet. One dreary September morning he decides to visit his younger brother at the Ministry. He knows that if he doesn't start engaging with the rest of the world again soon, there will be consequences. Bill and Fleur came to visit him a week ago, and before they came into the room he heard them whispering about St Mungo's. At first, he was horrified, but he realises now that he has forgotten how to speak and he hasn't washed in ages and some days he can't find the energy to even haul himself out of bed. He can understand why they would want to put him in hospital; he even forgets to eat sometimes without Fred here.

So he goes to the Ministry with every intention of going to see Ron. He really does. It's just that when he gets there, the place is so full of people and colour that it makes his head spin (or maybe that's the effect of last night's drinking session, he's not quite sure). People press against him on all sides and he stumbles against walls, breathing heavily. They wear a variety of expressions- harried, angry, joyful, fatigued- and they are all so real and _alive_ that it causes a fire in his chest. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps and he feels so claustrophobic that it hurts. He can't do this by himself. Fred was the strong one, not him. He's the second twin, the submissive, and without his dominant counterpart he is a lost puppy, scared and useless. He misses Fred, more acutely and agonisingly than ever.

And in a flash, he knows what to do.

He hands over his wand for inspection and shows the sleepy security wizard the little badge he got in the telephone booth proclaiming that he is visiting Ron in the Auror Office. His hands tremble only a little and he gets away with the ruse so easily it is almost laughable. He'll have to tell Kingsley how lax the security really is in this place.

He gets into the lift that is already full of people, but the claustrophobia has dimmed and he doesn't feel that same smothering panic, even when a snaggle-toothed hag gets uncomfortably close to his face. He clambers out almost immediately on Level Nine instead of Level Two, feeling an electric thrill of excitement as the cool female voice proclaims 'Department of Mysteries'.

He walks down a narrow corridor and opens a door, careful to give off the appearance of a lost visitor instead of a lost soul in case he is discovered. Inside this door is a circular room with about a dozen plain black handleless doors on the walls. The room is lit by eerie blue candles and the moment the door closes behind him, the walls spin rapidly. George feels nauseous just looking at them, and when they stop moving he stumbles against the wall.

He realises that he has no idea where the exit is.

And that he couldn't care less.

He takes his wand out of the back pocket of his jeans (Moody would kill him for stowing it there, if he wasn't already dead himself. Actually, he wouldn't put it past the old dog to come back from the dead, just to shout 'Constant vigilance! Better wizards than you have lost buttocks you know!') and tries the first door he puts his hand to. Amazingly, it opens without any trouble, and he replaces the wand in his pocket. This room is dimly lit with a sunken stone pit in the middle. He moves to take a step inside, but then he remembers what Tonks told him about how Sirius died in a room with an arch and a fluttering veil, and he can see something which resembles that description. He's had quite enough of death, thank you very much, so he backs out sharpish and tries the next door.

Much better.

This is a small room. The walls are black and it is windowless, of course. A lone wrought-iron chandelier hangs from the ceiling, with red flames flickering in the brackets. In the middle of the room is a large shape draped in ugly maroon velvet reminiscent of Ron's ridiculous dress robes. He feels that electric thrill again and steps hesitantly forward, trembling violently from head to foot. He can feel his heart hammering against his chest as rapidly as that of a rabbit, and a stony lump has formed in his throat. A tiny voice in the back of his head tells him that this is a bad idea (Hermione, he thinks, it sounds like Hermione), but another voice, louder and more exhuberant (Fred, definitely Fred, he's been hearing him a lot recently) is arguing obnoxiously. This voice is so loud and so familiar. He can't ignore it.

In a blur of red hair and pale skin, he rushes at the shape and drags the cover from it. He looks at it expectantly.

His eyes widen and fill with tears.

There he is, an exact reflection. His hair is bedragled, his eyes marred by spectacular purple shadows, the gaping hole of his ear blindingly obvious. He looks sick, deathly ill, but there is one glaring difference between the reflection and the desolate figure facing it.

The reflection smiles broadly and has its arm around the shoulders of another smiling redhaired man.

"Fred," George whispers, moving closer to the ornate golden frame. His brother grins impishly at him from behind the glass, waggling his fingers arrogantly. He is dressed in his green dragon-skin jacket and clutching a pile of Skiving Snackboxes. He glances at the image of George next to him and, as one, the pair burst into roars of silent laughter.

"Fred," George says again, more of a moan this time. He comes so close to the mirror that his face is barely an inch from the image of his brother's. He presses his hand to the glass and Fred reaches his hand out too. It is almost as though they are touching, and George can remember the feel of his brother's hand in his on their first day at Hogwarts. They were tiny, two of the shortest in the year, and despite his outgoing nature George was scared. He thought Fred would laugh at him, like he did Percy, but instead his twin slipped his hand into his and squeezed tight. George closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the icy glass. "_Fred_."

He doesn't know exactly how long he stands there- it coud be hours, or even days- but eventually he drops to the floor, sitting cross-legged on the flagstones. He grins at the image of himself and his twin hungrily.

"Fred," he says happily, the fire in his chest finally extinguished.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

They find him a week later, Harry and Ron accompanied by Angelina Johnson, who is an Auror now, and Hermione, who of course was the one to figure it all out. He doesn't even notice them bursting frantically through the door.

He is skeletally thin, verging on malnourished, and appears dizzy with dehydration. They find him cross-legged on the floor, shaking from head to foot with the cold as he is dressed only in jeans and an ancient moth-eaten Chudley Cannons t-shirt that Angelina says she gave to Fred for Christmas ine year. He is staring hungrily into the large mirror and doesn't tear his gaze away even when Hermione throws her arms around him in concern. He shrugs her off roughly, sending her flying to the floor and Ron scurrying to inspect the damage, without looking away from his reflection. His lips are turning blue with the cold but they twitch silently. For a moment, nobody can make out the word he is repeating over and over, but then Hermione gives a little squeaking sob and whispers 'Fred'. The others nod knowingly, and even Ron doesn't make a smart remark.

Bill and Fleur were right, of course. Bill has always been the wisest of his brothers, even though Percy thinks he has that title sown up, and Fleur was a Triwizard champion after all. Harry Floo's himself to Shell Cottage, where the Weasley's are holed up, unable to face the memories the Burrow holds, and explains the situation. There is a hurried argument, and a lot of tears on the part of Mrs Weasley, Ginny and even Fleur, before Bill convinces his parents that there is only one place for George now.

St. Mungo's. For a while, at least.

They visit him most days, one or other of the Weasleys, although it takes Mrs Weasley a long time to pluck up the courage. Angelina is there every day without fail, and Lee comes every few weeks, often accompanied by Alicia or Katie or even, once, Oliver Wood. For a long time, it doesn't matter. George doesn't recognise any of them; he is lost in his own fantasy. The Healers say they can't have any reflective surfaces in the room with him. He thinks his own face is Fred's.

It gets better gradually until eventually, two days before his birthday, he sits bolt upright in his hospital cot and grabs Angelina's hand in a grip so tight it would hurt if she wasn't so relieved.

"Angelina?" he whispers.

Angelina is so elated that she can't answer; she merely throws herself at him and wraps her arms around his neck, sobbing and clutching him close to her. George is mystified, but he knows something is wrong because the room has that sickly aroma of disinfectant and old people which is synonymous with hospitals. He knows he should be scared, but all he can think is that the fire in his chest has been extinguished. The Fred-shaped hole is still there, but it doesn't hurt as much as it used to. A small smile crosses his face and he strokes the hair of the young woman sobbing hysterically in his arms dazedly.

"Angelina, it's OK. Everything is OK."

And alright, it's not technically true. But it will be.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

**I don't know what to make of this... Please review? Pretty please?**


End file.
